Lion and Lamb
by MemoirsofaLostCause
Summary: The devilishly handsome sociopath, Blaise Zabini, and the tearful warrior, Cho Chang, pursue something different. She changes the rules to his games and he shows her a better sort of pain.
1. The Start (Blo)

**Disclaimer: I don't own it; don't wish I did. I just like mixing and matching pairs.**

_**A/N: So! I'm back again. This is a bit of an experiment— in reality, all of my stories are "experiments", but— it's my first unfinished one-shot/possible multi-chapter. It turns out "Then the Terrorists Win" did better than "Fire and Ice", so I guess the public loves the tragedy, dark romance, and angst. So, if in your review you ask for a proper ending, I will capitulate. If not, you may revel in the suspense. Until then, I'll be off finishing the second season of Doctor Who. Enjoy! :)**_

Blaise hated Christmas. He hated the bloody carols; he hated the gaudy colours (honestly! What colourblind prick decided that green and red compliment each other?); and he hated the merry spirits. But, above all, Blaise Zabini hated mistletoe. The weed every single twit in the world worshipped. He hated how it "magically" grew above people's heads. He hated how at every Christmas party, his bloody nosey mother insisted on trapping him under it with some completely wrong witch. He hated mingling with the twits and he hated that stupid bloody smile he had to keep on his face. However, this year was different. This year, she was here.

* * *

How she made it in, he had no idea. She definitely wasn't a Muggleborn, but she also wasn't a Pureblood. She was accepted into this circle; albeit reluctantly. He watched her; unsure of herself, socially awkward, rehearsing conversations in her head. He watched as she hurriedly grabbed a drink to keep her hands busy. He watched as she took it all in— probably wondering why the hell she even got mixed in with this lot. The lot that she fought against; the lot that killed her boyfriend. The lot that persecuted her friends, and made her watch. The lot that killed her family right under her nose. He almost felt pity for her; the stupid bint. Why was she even here? He embraced her presence, don't make that mistake. As stupid as she was; the girl was brave. She had as much nerve as a bloody Gryffindor. She didn't show it; but he could tell that she was fighting herself— the Raven advising her that this is unnatural. A bird mixing in with snakes and having the nerve to feel at the bottom of the food chain. She deserved to carry herself with pride; throw dirty looks at those that lost the War, instead of the losers being sore with the champions. She had the advantage. She had the Pureblood— the blood that diluted itself to keep clean.

She wouldn't ever have to worry about birthing Squibs, or being infertile because of years of ignorance and inbreeding. The fear of "Mudblood germs" brought the advancement their magic to a halt. Her kind was confident; she deserved praise. He continued watching her, his introverted enigma. The more he watched her squirm, the more he wondered. Normally, his sociopathic nature would have him revel in her awkwardness; take pride in her being put in her place. But she didn't deserve that. He watched her.

He had watched her since school. He watched her pine over that idiot, Diggory. He watched her mourn for years, then join those dunderheads in Dumbledore's Army. He watched her date that twat, Potter. He watched her cry. Oh he hated watching her cry. It was unnatural for someone to feel that sad; that alone. Never before had he seen someone so vulnerable. He wanted to touch her; to hold her; tell her that she deserved the world, not being shoved into a hideous dress and be mentally berated by those Pureblood bitches. As he watched her accept a flute, he waited for her to feel his eyes. He waited for that split second where he could catch her off guard; keep her awake into the long hours of the night; wonder why he noticed her and not the groupies surrounding him— spoiling his Firewhiskey and killing his buzz. He counted the seconds— 3... 2... 1...

As she turned to face him, he swiftly raised his glass at the right moment— the right angle. He was in the corner of her eye; always so precise, so punctual. He knew she was going to do a double take— whereas she was new to this, it was just part of his sick game. He knew how to read them; how to draw them in. The second she faced him, he was already heading to the ballroom doors— toward the balcony.

* * *

The cool air nipped at his face, but he didn't care. He preferred the cold. Cold was absolute. There was no worry about whether it was warm, or hot, or warm and breezy. Cold is cold. Absent heat. Blaise was cold. His heart was cold; his emotions died in the blizzard. There was no connection from his heart to his brain. The only thing he ever felt was pain. He could feel the hurt he inflicted on others. Most would hate themselves or hate the power. To Blaise, it was no curse; it was a blessing. It was a gift. He could feel the power he inflicted and it reverberated back into him. It made him stronger; harder to destroy, but more attractive. Everyone loves a bad boy and, Merlin, he was evil.

But her.

Everyone loves a bad boy but her.

She liked them self-confident; they had enough pride and leadership and praise to blaze a trail for the both of them. Before they had her, they pined for her. Hopelessly. Under her spell worse than an Imperius. But when she ended the chase— when they finally got her— they dropped her like hot dragon eggs. They ruined her; and he was ready to destroy them for it.

* * *

When she finally arrived, he was sitting on the ledge. "Join me", was his behest.

* * *

_**P.S.: If you truly hate it, I'll fix it until it's perfect, then promptly lose my nerve and cut it. Happy voting!  
P.S.S.: As always, leave any: questions, comments, responses in a PM or review. Either way, I'll see and respond in a somewhat timely manner (student by day, secretly publishing stories by night).**_


	2. The Chase (Blo, part 2)

**A/N: Okayokayokay I profusely apologize to anyone who actually reads this story or has been waiting for the next chapter. I'm a daft bimbo, a loaf, an imbecile, a git, whatever you want to call me. Another apology is that this isn't actually chapter two; it's the partial rewrite of chapter one... surprise. I hope you like this one better. CHAPTER TWO IS COMING!... after I finish season 4 of Doctor Who. My deadline is the 28th! Wish me luck! Enjoy! ~friggin' Lost Cause**

**P.S. THESE AREN'T MY CHARACTERS! I OWN THE PLOT (if someone hasn't attempted this already), CHO'S INNOCENCE, AND BLAISE'S CREEPINESS**

* * *

Blaise Zabini hated Christmas.

He hated the carols; he hated the merriness; he hated the gaudiness (why the bloody hell would anyone _ever_ mix Slytherin and Gryffindor colours?); and he hated the company. The one, greatest evil of Christmas, however, was the mistletoe. Blaise hated mistletoe more than he hated Malfoy; more than he hated his ex-stepfathers. But, of course, there's an exception to everything. The one redeeming quality was the gift; Blaise adored being showered in presents. The greatest part was, being devilishly handsome and cynically reclusive, Blaise only had to give one person a gift each year, while everyone else gave him many. But that was it. Blaise hated Christmas' connotation— family. _Family._ He mentally scoffed. _This_ 'family'_ hasn't been united in over twelve years; not since the bastard me with _her. He sobered and visibly tensed. After a minute, he took a look at his glass, tossed it back, summoned an elf, and took a look around the room. Blaise hated his past— even more than Christmas— which made him so introverted, so sadistic, so cynical. Dangerously enticing. He had his own magnetic field, his own orbit, and it drew every and anything, or one, in.

Christmas last year, the Ministry tried him as a Death Eater. A bloody _Death Eater._ He had dignity! _Ironic,_ he thought, _how I, a bloody Zabini, have dignity. It's definitely paternal._ They checked his wand, no trace of Unforgivables. They searched his Manor, his vault, the Zabini family vault, and each house they owned— no mask or robes. No mark, no evidence. He didn't even think about joining the Death Eaters; however, he was possibly acquainted with Malfoy. The Death Eater pet. "Guilty by association"— the crack sentence they decided on. Three months in Azkaban, he gave St. Mungo's a new wing, and he was just removed from house arrest and returned his wand three months ago. Holed up in the Manor with _her_ for six months. Her damn nagging was worse than the permanent chill of Azkaban. The Dementors were long since removed; the Aurors seemed even worse. They weren't technically allowed to abuse the prisoners; but, as long as no marks and bruises were visible, everything was peachy.

He turned 19 in a metal box. A cage. He shuddered. _Let's change the subject to something more... proper, shall we?_

* * *

Blaise took a long look around the room. To anyone else, it seemed like he was assessing the decorations, contemplating whether or not the house elves deserved punishing. His criminal smirk could be mistaken as a 'yes'. As time passed, Blaise grew better at this game. Before, it was all about the real capture for him; the trapping and gaming were a nuisance to him. Now, it was all about the chase. He preferred to play with his food. Look smart, speak impeccably, but always know your prey. Inside and out; predict their next moves. But when his eyes stopped on her, his stance became rigid, his jaw clenched and his hands folded into fists, any onlooker would notice that his mind wasn't on house-elves. He murmured a quick Disillusionment charm in Italian.

There she was. Somehow, she looked the same. After all these years; always. Her timid stance, her uncomfortable expression, her fidgeting like a child, her aura. _Her innocence._ He wondered if she knew why she was here; if she had heard about his sick little game. _No, she couldn't have_, he chided. He contemplating reaching out to her, letting her feel his presence. As her eyebrow quirked and she turned to face him, he backed away. He couldn't ruin it this soon. Blaise walked to the outskirts of the room and reversed the charm, dully noting the coven ogling and smirking at him. He sent a dashing and wicked smile to them, appeasing them just the slightest.

But they weren't right. They were the epitome of elegance and wonderful breeding. Everything stuffed, hidden, and sculpted. They weren't real. They lost themselves and innocence long ago when their parents uttered those two words "marriage arrangement". They bided time that wasn't theirs by scavenging; turning eligible wizards into shells of themselves. A quick satiation, then an even quicker _Obliviate_. Or _Crucio_. It didn't matter to them. What mattered was the chase– the feel of doing something wrong, rebelling. That's what they wanted. Blaise, however, was not. They didn't have time to play with their food; Blaise did. Blaise had all the time in the world– one thing he could thank his mother for, instead of leaving every party an hour early with one of her guests of honour. Blaise inspected her again.

* * *

How she made it in, he had no idea. She definitely wasn't a Muggleborn, but she also wasn't a Pureblood. She was accepted into this circle; albeit reluctantly. He watched her; unsure of herself, socially awkward, rehearsing conversations in her head. He watched as she hurriedly grabbed a drink to keep her hands busy. He watched as she took it all in— probably wondering why the hell she even got mixed in with this lot. The lot that she fought against; the lot that killed her boyfriend. The lot that persecuted her friends, and made her watch. He almost felt pity for her; the daft tart. Why was she even here? He embraced her presence, don't make that mistake. As stupid as she was; the girl had balls. She didn't show it; but he could tell that she was fighting herself, the Raven advising her that this is unnatural. A bird mixing in with snakes and having the nerve to feel at the bottom of the food chain.

She deserved to carry herself with pride; throw dirty looks at those that lost the War, instead of the losers being sore with the champions. She had the advantage. She had the Pureblood— the blood that diluted itself to keep clean. She wouldn't ever have to worry about birthing Squibs, or being infertile because of years of ignorance and inbreeding. The fear of "Mudblood germs" brought the advancement their magic to a halt. Her kind was confident; she deserved praise. He continued watching her, his introverted enigma.

The more he watched her squirm, the more he wondered. Normally, his sociopathic nature would have him revel in her awkwardness; take pride in her being put in her place. But she didn't deserve that. He watched her. He had watched her since school. He watched her pine over that idiot, Diggory. He watched her mourn for years, then join those dunderheads in Dumbledore's Army. He watched her date that twat, Potter. He watched her cry. Oh he hated watching her cry. It was unnatural for someone to feel that sad; that alone. Never before had he seen someone so vulnerable. He wanted to touch her; to hold her; tell her that she deserved the world, not being shoved into a hideous dress and be mentally berated by those Pureblood bitches.

As he watched her accept a flute, he waited for her to feel his eyes. He waited for that split second where he could catch her off guard; keep her awake into the long hours of the night; wonder why he noticed her and not the groupies surrounding him— spoiling his Firewhiskey and killing his buzz. He counted the seconds— 3... 2... 1...

As she turned to face him, he swiftly raised his glass at the right moment— the right angle. He was in the corner of her eye; always so precise, so punctual. He knew she was going to do a double take— whereas she was new to this, it was just part of his sick game. He knew how to read them; how to draw them in. The second she faced him, he was already heading to the ballroom doors— toward the balcony.

* * *

The cool air nipped at his face, but he didn't care. He preferred the cold. Cold was absolute. There was no worry about whether it was warm, or hot, or warm and breezy. Cold is cold; absent heat. Blaise was cold. His heart was cold; his emotions died in the blizzard. There was no connection from his heart to his brain. The only thing he ever felt was pain. He could feel the hurt he inflicted on others. Most would hate themselves or hate the power. To Blaise, it was no curse; it was a blessing. It was a gift. He could feel the power he inflicted and it reverberated back into him. It made him stronger— harder to destroy, but more attractive. Everyone loves a bad boy and he was evil.

But her.

Everyone loves a bad boy but her.

She liked them self-confident; they had enough pride and leadership and praise to blaze a trail for the both of them. Before they had her, they pined for her. Hopelessly. They were under her spell worse than an Imperius. But when she ended the chase— when they finally got her— they dropped her like hot dragon eggs. They ruined her; and he was ready to destroy them for it.

* * *

When she finally arrived, he was sitting on the ledge with his back against the column and a stiff drink in his hand. He took a swig, dropped the glass, and smiled that maniacal smile he knew she hated. She said it reminded her of Tom Riddle, of Voldemort. The smile that can hide so much, but make a distinct impression. It was the smile that Bellatrix smiled during the War. It was the last smile to ever maim her features. The smile of insanity. Reckless gloating and indignity. She said it was too normal for him. It distorted his features. He was a silent fire, but that smile spoke volumes. He watched her shiver with his crazed eyes. Something in him changed. Maybe it was the fact that nothing had gone how he planned for the night. Maybe it was the fact that his mixed drink made him feel like his least favourite stepfather. The one that berated him like a "dad" and taught him his first defensive spell. The one that tried to be a father figure in Blaise's life. That was what he hated. The prick was so bloody stupid. He had to have heard the stories of the 'Black Widow'. He should've known that he was next. But, alas, he fell for her anyway. He loved her like some ickle Second Year that frequented Madame Puddifoot's.

Love was for the weak. The Zabinis didn't believe in love— they couldn't. Although he didn't know what it was, he shied away from it. He avoided it and any form of sentiment. He invited presents because they were trivial things; no one ever gave from the heart. He felt like a God when he was pampered and adored. He tried to instill that into the girl in front of him. She tried to change him. She warmed him. It had to end. The sentiment felt like poison; golden elixir rushed through his veins, making him uncomfortable. With a look of pure internal disgust, Blaise threw his glass over the ridge and watched it crumble and shatter into pixie dust. He gestured to the general area surrounding him, his eyes avoiding her face. "Join me", was his behest.


	3. The Tale (Zhang)

She hated these things. The poshness; the artificial laughs; the politics. They were worse than the Ministry Balls. Merlin knows that she had to stop going to those. She couldn't handle the pitying looks, the uncomfortable gestures. Cho hated small talk; it was the only thing Gryffindors were good at, excluding recklessness and attempts at suicide. At least the 'Claws could hold meaningful conversations, but they were too wise to get into politics and too proud to fight a losing War. Only a handful of Ravenclaws had recognition as heroes and even a smaller few joined the Wizengamot. This, however, made no difference in the blandness of the night because of her alienation. Stripped of the honour Ravenclaw house had previously bestowed upon her; presented her with. She had the brains, but not the pride. The attendees knew how to make her feel like Typhoid Mary. She missed her days in Hogwarts. Long debates by the fire about the effectiveness of Disillusionment charms, Wizardkind's emergence, the faulty wording in the Statute of Secrecy. She missed the flushed faces, wild eyes, insightful views. She missed her the disbanding of logical fallacies and she missed the petty arguing. She thought her loss of identity and the Ministry Balls were bad, but this was a whole new evil. Literally.

She could feel the dark magic, concentrated in this teeming chamber. It was trapping her, suffocating her. Literally— no one in the world knew how to drown themselves with fragrances quite like the Pureblooded. Which made her even more unique, more conspicuous. She was the norm. The subtle piece of modern art shoved in a room full of classics. The half-blood propelled in a room full of Purebloods. Sure, there were others like her— there had to have been. But even among her own kind, she was still the outcast. It was branded upon her psyche. She withstood a curse of isolation. She would never be able to call someone her equal; belong to someone or have someone belong to her. Her nomadic lifestyle was another reason. She broke it off when anything became too serious. She left before she could lose control. But she was unique. The invigorating hybrid encased in a room of the dying breed. She became a paradox; the future intermingling with the past. She dangled what they would die for in their pompous faces. She was the nerve-wracking stain on their introverted lifestyles. She had what they used to have; what they valued more than life. But that wasn't important. Tonight's theme was blood. Genetics. How this one room even existed still. Without the interbreeding, Purebloods would have died out centuries ago. Millenniums. Except the Malfoys. The reason she was here.

Only Circe could tell her how the Malfoys managed to stay pure— how to keep the gene pool fresh without ever dabbing into anything Muggle. Or, her theory, how many half-blood kin they had to disown— to wipe out. Her thoughts digressed. She began to remember the reason behind this horrid trip.

* * *

_It was March of 1999. Cho was fresh from counseling, still facing nightmares from the War. The Ministry was being rebuilt and she needed someway to get her life back; find her happiness. After a bout of depression, she decided to change herself— to rediscover herself, her goals, and life. She was tired of drowning and being beaten by her misfortunes. She was tired of hating herself and alienating everyone around her. She had lost Cedric, Fred, her parents, Marietta. Everyone. She took Oath with herself that she wouldn't be next. She would blossom and bloom and live for not only herself, but for those who couldn't. In counseling, she managed to forgive herself. She forgave Cedric for leaving her; her parents for underestimating her; Marietta for betraying her; herself for the constant neglect. Her counselor finally managed to persuade her to attend the Hero's Ball. She told her it would be a good way to get back into the public eye— to stand strong for all the other Ravenclaws too wise and proud to admit defeat. As she dressed, she took a good look at herself. She saw the pain in her eyes replaced with contentment. It was too early to actually feel happy, or anything; but, for once, she thought she was a while away from suicidal._

_At the Ball, she received many oblong looks and open stares. She knew better to challenge them. Instead, she feigned naiveté. She looked around, ghosts of her past haunting her eyes, looked longingly at the glasses of champagne and happy couples. She knew how politics worked and she knew that playing the victim, which she was, would get her on the front page of the Daily Prophet. This would make it so much easier to find a job, she mused, and just have everyone come to me instead of sending owls and resumes that would be promptly ignited or trashed. Soon enough, Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet were sending her owls, begging for interviews and her untold account of the War and lost loves. The next week, she was pitched on front covers with Rita Skeeter spreading as much bullocks as she could. The next month, she had a job at the Daily Prophet—in politics._

* * *

The memories made her sick. She wasn't proud of her journey; she was just proud that she made it— especially after her brief escapades with the infamous Cormac McLaggen. She still couldn't look at strawberries and crème the same way again. The thought made her skin crawl while becoming flushed. With him, she discovered her superpower. She discovered how to make it in this demented world, where the world was run by politics and human nature. Morals and purity no longer existed. Her thoughts digressed.

She took in her surroundings again; she fanned out her skirt and combed her hand through her raven locks. Cho was still self-conscious; but she knew she was attractive. She was pretty, petite, and feminine. An unconventional warrior. Nothing sexy, she still had her boyish build and childlike features, but it played into her innocence. From her years during and after Hogwarts, the alumni learned a valuable lesson; innocence attracts creeps. Cho Chang met Blaise Zabini in May of 2000 at the Third Annual Ministry Hero's Ball, celebrating those who fought and fell at the hand of Tom Riddle. She had heard a few less-than-friendly stories about the bloke; however, when she saw him, she threw all caution to the wind. He was tall, dark, and enticing. Dressed in impeccable black robing with a fresh pressed white Oxford and polished, dragon hide loafers, the dangerously mysterious Italian Slytherin immediately caught her attention; and later, her fancy.

* * *

After his dramatic exit, she quirked an eyebrow. Oh yes, she remembered, the second reason she decided to live for a night. He had something she wanted, but she had something she needed. She summoned an elf and clasped a glass of Firewhiskey. She would need something stronger than pumpkin juice to make it through tonight. It was closing in on the twenty-second hour, but the fun hadn't even begun yet. She toasted to herself and treachery as she sipped her glass. She felt someone's eyes on her. _No_, she thought_, they couldn't know._ One thing that Cho praised herself on was her ingenuity. The other quality, her allure. The childlike trust that died with Marietta. The naivete and love that died with Cedric. The submission that died with her parents. Her carefree nature that died with Fred. The confidence that Blaise stole from her. And she wanted it back. She had played traitor to love in 1994. She played traitor by association in 1996. She played traitor in morals in 1998. She was a traitor to herself in 2000. She sure as hell wasn't going to play ally to a Pureblood in 2002.

* * *

There were many things that Cho Chang was. She was smart, sensitive, and sentimental. She was innocent and dainty. She played the lamb to her morals. Only to _her_ morals.

She accepted his bequest. _Oh Merlin, _she begged,_ give me streng__th._

* * *

**A/N: I am a horrible, terrible, disgusting bloody liar. If you've been patiently waiting, I apologize. I don't know why anyone would put up with my sorry arse. Anyway, yes. This is ridiculously short, but I'm using borrowed time. I'll have part two up sometime. Then it should be one or two more full length chapters, then I'll edit it, and I'm finished. No more multi-chapters until summer. Seriously. I owe you guys! I've just revised this chapter (much longer) and I hope everyone is sated!**


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